The Beach Boys
by Random Ruth
Summary: E/O Challenge: "bucket". A hunt on a beach doesn't go quite according to plan for Bobby, John, Dean and Sammy. Wee!chesters. A story made up of four drabbles (4x500 words).
1. 1

**Author's Note:** This past week I have been hit with both Not Enough Time and Writer's Block. Woe is me! I sat down to write out an E/O drabble or two and—nothing! I couldn't write a thing! So this morning I started again—I realised it was going to be a long one, so I made a plan, worked out days and dates. I was 1,800 words in before I stopped and started again. And here we are, the second draught, written in three hours. My _eyes_. I only finished this ten minutes ago. Phew! That was close...

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**1.**

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_Friday, June 26th 1987_

Bobby Singer had called a few days ago and said he had a job lined up on the coast. Bobby met up with the Winchester clan in a diner overlooking a large beach. Erosion of the short cliff face would see this diner disappear before long.

Bobby bought them all supper after their long drive. He waited until Dean and Sammy went to the restroom before he turned in his seat to rummage in his duffel bag—John spotted the salt canisters and the bottle of accelerant before Bobby found what he was looking for.

Bobby glanced to either side to be sure no one was watching and slid the page across the table. It was an obituary in a local paper, a grainy black-and-white photograph above the paragraph. John scanned it quickly—Todd Bradley, seven-years-old, died at sea on June 25th 1966. "Died at sea, Bobby? We can't burn those bones."

Bobby's face was grim—John could sympathise; dead kids were tough. "He's buried in a cemetery about a half-hour out. Story goes, the father takes Todd out on the family boat and the kid gets seasick, falls overboard and drowns before anyone can pull 'im out. But that's not all," he slides a handful of papers across the desk, "'cause seven years later on the last Saturday in June, seven kids who were on the beach—they get seasick on dry land. They're not better for a week."

"Seven days," John said. He sorted through the medical records. 1973, 1980...

"Exactly," Bobby nodded, sipping his coffee. He produced a black-and-white photograph of Todd standing next to a sand castle with his bucket and spade. "That was taken a few hours before he died."

"You've done your homework." John was impressed at Bobby's ability to connect the dots and notice patterns, and allowed it to show in his voice. He took another look at the young face staring out of the old photograph before he handed it back. "I guess I'm digging tonight."

"I'll babysit," Bobby assured with a little grin as he packed his research away. Bobby held up a hand to forestall John's automatic protest. "I know how you're always goin' on about how capable young Dean is, but he's just a kid. Let 'im have a break." He had the grace to look sheepish. "And who knows, maybe after this job's done... you could stay for a little while; soak up a little sea air. It would do you all good."

He was trying to be kind, John knew that, but the suggestion still made John's hackles go up. They were _his_ boys, _he _could care for them—he didn't need suggestions from someone he'd met a handful of times. Bobby didn't know the boys like John did.

Dean and Sammy emerged from the restroom and the anger petered out—he tucked it up, could use it later when he needed to. Too many things made him angry these past few years.


	2. 2

**2.**

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_Saturday, June 27, 1987_

Bobby unfolded his creaky old deck chair, keeping one foot on his towel so it wouldn't blow away in the unseasonal gale. Deck chair in place, he stuffed his duffel bag underneath within easy reach. He still had his beach jeans—a pair that had torn at the knee while he was working on a car—in the bottom of the bag in case the sun decided to come out.

He made sure Dean and Sammy were suitably wrapped up before he sat down on his chair with a small stack of motoring magazines to get through. He'd asked them to put on some sun cream, but it had turned into a 'who can get the most splodges on the other's face' game. Bobby rolled his eyes and suppressed a smile—he hadn't known these boys all that long, but he liked them already.

He put on his gruff front and said, "Now you two idjits stay in my line of sight—Lord knows what your dad will do if he hears you boys wandered off." He pulled his trucker's cap further down to shade his eyes. "I'm gonna lie here and watch ya like a hawk," he warned, "so no gettin' into trouble."

"Yes, Mr Singer," the boys chorused in perfect sync, and Dean tacked on a "sir" for good measure. Bobby's gaze softened at that, and he found he couldn't look at the regimental way they were standing, shoulder-to-shoulder, any more.

"Well don't just stand there—go on, get!" He waved his arms at them like they were a pair of pesky flies. "Shoo!"

"Can we build a castle?" Sammy asked Dean eagerly as they set off for the shore, with all the excitement a typical four-year-old at the beach should have. "It can have a moat! And cannons can fire at the pirates in the moat and then the knights can feed the pirates to the dinosaur!"

"We don't have any tools, remember, Sammy?" Dean said. Sammy let his shoulders droop, and that together with his floppy hair made him look extra disappointed. It was a move Bobby had seen both John and Dean fall for time and again—Bobby had to chuckle at the kid's cunning. Dean sighed. "Okay, okay, we can build a castle..."

Bobby divided his attention between the Winchester boys; the growing crowd of families, old couples and dog walkers on the beach despite the wind; and his magazines. With his nose seemingly in a magazine, it was a lot easier to watch someone without them realising.

This day at the beach was a precaution, really—Todd Bradley's bones had been salted and burned last night—but since they only had one shot at this job every seven years, it paid to be one hundred per-cent certain that he was gone.

Somewhere along the line Dean had acquired a purple plastic spade and he, together with Sammy, were busy making sand castles—though, to Bobby, they closer resembled volcanoes.


	3. 3

**3.**

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Dean couldn't remember the last time he'd actually been to the beach, or if he'd been to one at all and it wasn't some dream he'd had once. He was enjoying making the sand castles—even though they looked a lot like volcanoes—with Sammy, and his little brother was so happy it was making Dean happy too. The dinosaurs defeated the pirates _and_ the knights in the end, or so Sammy told Dean, and they moved on to something else.

Dean spotted a rocky area near the cliff face and led Sammy over to it. They tried to name all the animals they could—Sammy was really good at that game thanks to the many hours he spent watching television in whatever motel room Dad happened to leave them in.

Sammy was going through a phase that meant he was always pestering Dean for a pet. He would point at birds sitting in trees and ask, "Can I have one?" or point at a dog and say suggestively, "I really like that one." Dean had brought a worm into their motel room as a joke once, but Sammy had been serious and found a shoe box lid and made the worm a pen to crawl around in and named the worm Stanley. Stanley inevitably got left behind once Dad decided they were going to move again.

Dean told Sammy that no, he really couldn't keep the red crab and yes, he should put it back in the pool, and instead took Sammy down to the surf. As a wave approached he jumped over it by way of demonstration. Sammy squished up his face in concentration as the next wave got closer—he didn't jump high enough to clear the water; not that it mattered.

Then Sammy was the one to spot the two donkeys being led down the path to the beach. Sammy nagged and nagged until Dean went over to Bobby to ask for some money. When Dean turned around again, Sammy was already deep in conversation with a woman who was holding one of the donkeys.

"I really want a donkey," Sammy was saying, "but we move around quite a lot and I don't think I'm allowed one."

The woman smiled and nodded as if that was something she heard a lot. "Not many people can have donkeys—they need lots of space."

"Our car is big," Sammy went on, and then paused to think, "but maybe not donkey-big..."

The donkey rides Dean enjoyed more than he expected to, and he was going to have lots of fun telling Dad later about the asses he'd met. After the donkeys, Dean and Sammy decided to just explore the beach, Dean being sure to keep an eye out for Bobby the whole time.

"Hey, Dean, look," Sammy said while pointing at something yellow that was partially buried in the sand near some rocks, "a bucket. We could make castles!"

The bucket was obviously old—rusty metal rather than plastic.


	4. 4

**4.**

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John had left Bobby with the boys early this morning because he had a plan. They needed to keep an eye on as many people on the beach as they could and try to make sure that none of them were getting sick thanks to Todd Bradley. Thankfully, one girl was just travel sick, and another boy had eaten some sand.

No one suspected the humble ice-cream man in his van of being a hunter. The only problem was that John was rubbish at making cones—the soft ice-cream just went everywhere and often flopped right off the cone. He'd had to issue many refunds and had only a handful of satisfied customers all day.

The evening chill was starting to creep along the beach, the crowd dispersing, by the time John decided to call it a day on his ice-cream business. He was halfway between the van and Bobby, whose head was tilted to one side as he dozed, when he caught sight of Dean and Sammy and he broke into a run, shouting at Bobby to "Wake the hell up!" as he went.

Sammy was lying on his side next to a cluster of sand castles, Dean watching Sammy worriedly as he, too, clutched his stomach. When John saw the rusted old bucket his heart plummeted but the puzzle pieces clicked instantly into place—he knew what had to be done.

"It's okay, it's gonna be okay," he breathlessly told his boys once he reached them; they both looked up at him with pained eyes. "Bobby, salt!" he yelled, making Dean flinch. John threw the bucket a little distance away. As soon as he reached them, Bobby sprinkled the bucket with salt. John squirted on the accelerant and struck a match, setting the bucket alight. Satisfied that Bobby had that end under control, he returned to his boys.

Sammy whimpered as John kneeled next to him and sat him upright, allowing him to lean against his dad. Dean didn't need to be asked as he pressed himself into John's other side. There were a few moments of silence apart from the fire crackling.

"So... that was Todd's bucket," Bobby eventually said, staring into the flames. John only nodded. As the bucket burned, Bobby dug a hole using Dean's purple spade. Colour returned to Dean and Sammy's cheeks as the bucket was cleansed of Todd's spirit.

Bobby looked down at the Winchesters, obviously concerned and guilty.

John met his gaze, slightly accusingly for sleeping on the job, and picked up the exhausted Sammy. Dean followed, his feet trailing, until they reached the Impala. The boys both climbed into the back seat, leaning on each other.

"Sorry, John."

John knew Bobby meant it—it wasn't completely Bobby's fault; they'd both overlooked something. John wasn't angry, just worried. He wasn't going to lose his boys to this job; he'd make sure of that.

John drove off, leaving an apologetic Bobby in his rear-view mirror.

"...Is the car donkey-big?" Sammy asked sleepily.

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**THE END**


End file.
